When Fear Rules
by mgmerlin
Summary: Yes, I know it sounds like a ghost story, but that’s what it was. Supernatural, I tell you, sir. He was just different." An old woman remembers one orphan in particular.


**When Fear Rules**

"**To suffering there is a limit; to fearing, none"**

**Francis Bacon**

My, that's one might long beard you got there sir. I could wrap up warm around it on a cold night I could. Here, you look almost as old as me. Older, if you don't mind me saying. Mind you, there's still a little bit of colour among the white of your hair isn't there. I lost all traces of blonde from my hair long ago. Here, haven't I seen you around here before? Teacher, you say? You look like you should have retired long ago. I like your glasses, though. Nice half-moon shape. Distinctive.

What's that? You wanna hear about Tom? Oh, you don't wanna know about him, sir. I'm telling you, there was something strange about that boy. Always. We were forever wary of him, you know. Afraid even. It's true! He had to be kept apart from the other babies because whenever he was near them, they all burst out crying. Honestly, if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes I wouldn't believe it, but every single time he came into contact with the other little orphans, they'd go hysterical.

Yes, I know it sounds like a ghost story, but that's what it was. Supernatural, I tell you, sir. I wasn't the only one you know; we all felt it. There was something about him, something we just couldn't place our fingers upon. He was just different. We tried to treat him like the rest, just like everyone else – we never mistreated the orphans, or at least I didn't – but when it came down to it, he just wasn't like the rest. And it wasn't only the other babies who were afraid of him, you see sir; we all were.

Maybe it all goes back to his birth. There was a rumour – I suppose it could be the truth thinking on it all – about his mother and how she'd died giving birth to him. It says that basically her death was just, well, sudden. One moment everything's fine (you know, she's screaming in pain but that's just normal, not that you'd know much about the pain of childbirth, sir), but then his head appears, and, well, she collapses and dies. Click of your fingers, she's dead. For no apparent reason. Except him. It's like he was born out of Death. I know it was just a rumour, but it fit, sir. It all fit.

Then there was the way he acted. He was mad for a time, you see. You heard me right, sir – mad. I told you all the other babies went hysterical around him, but that's because he just didn't stop wailing for days. It went on and on. We could barely feed him, and I swear he never slept. He just cried. I've been around many a difficult baby, sir, but he was a one off. Completely unique. For a week or two anyway. Then he just stopped. He cried and struggled endlessly, and then without warning, he went quiet. Completely still. It's like he was almost dead. In fact, you'd have thought he was dead if you'd have looked at him casually. Sometimes he'd stretch his arms out though, as if he were trying to touch something. Babies do that, don't they sir – you know when they want a toy or some food, or just plain comfort from their mummies – but seeing him do it, when moments before he'd been as still as a statue, well, it was unnerving. Damn right spooky.

Did I tell you about the feeling we all got around him, sir? Oh, we were more than wary of him; we were scared of him. I know I told you this already, but it's true. It wasn't just the babies who couldn't stand to be in his presence. You see, being around him, it gave us all the chills. It felt cold. I'm not joking, sir, if you stood near his cot, you shivered. Even in the summer, and I recall that first summer was blazing hot. I may be an old, old woman sir, but I remember everything about him, and it scares me now just thinking about it. You'd try and feed him and all you could think about was how cold it was. Shivering with Goosebumps, if you follow me, sir. And the thoughts we all got! He was like a magnet for fear. You couldn't be around him and not be afraid. Deathly afraid. You could feel the fear in that room of his. Taste it even. There was no end to fear in that room, sir. It was endless. And it only went away when you left the room. Did we hate him for that? No! I was nice to all of the orphans, including him. Except you just couldn't feel happy around him. Only cold, and frightened. I'll never ever forget that about him.

Do I think he was responsible? That's just it, sir. Sometimes you weren't sure whether it was all down to him or something else. Some of us thought he might have been the Devil's work, and to be sure, oftentimes I'd be trying to feed him, change his nappy or what not, and you felt you were being watched. You know, you'd turn around and search in the darkened corners for someone, something else. We were all the same – the hairs on our necks stood on end because we thought there was just a kind of presence around him. Whenever any of us spent time near him, we'd come out afterwards and all say the same thing: there was always the feeling that something else was in that room with him, something we couldn't see, but could definitely feel; something black and evil. We were scared stiff of him sir. Even now, I swear the Devil was in there with him.

Was I glad to be rid of him when he left? I don't like admitting it, but yes I was. Even after those first couple of weeks when he calmed down, he was never really responsive. He wasn't a happy baby, and we were never happy around him, I can tell you that much, sir. No one could connect with him, if you understand me. We just couldn't. We had to keep him at arms' length, and we couldn't anger him or make him stressful.

Oh, didn't I tell you about that? Well, strange things happened around him. Like glasses would break and repair themselves of their own accord. He'd cut himself accidentally and they'd heal miraculously. It was like stigmata, but he wasn't no Christ, I can tell you that, sir. He broke his wrist once, but the next day, it was all fixed. It was frightening sir. And things like that happened all the time. We just couldn't deal with him. There was one woman – she had a voice on her – and she'd shout herself hoarse at all the children. A big woman she was, not very nice. In fact I hated her, but I'm just a timid little thing, sir – if she'd told me to jump off of a cliff I'd probably had done it! Anyway, she thought she could control the lad. Not for long though. I remember hearing her shouting and beating him 'cause of something he'd done – I think he'd been caught eating stolen chocolate (I don't know how he managed to get it though; he kept to himself and barely left that room of his which satisfied everyone) – and we left her to her own devices. After a few minutes, when all the noises and bangings and such had stopped, she comes crawling out of there, black and blue, like she'd been thrown around like a rag doll, and she couldn't speak. To this day, I don't know what happened, and all because she'd tried to discipline him. Another woman had a go and she ended up in a mental institution. She went in the room, didn't come out for a good half an hour. I ended up going in to check on things and, well, she was on the floor. She wasn't dead, but she might as well have been – completely lifeless she was. It was like a part of her was missing all of a sudden. She might have been breathing, but what was on the floor before me wasn't alive no more. She never got better neither. In fact, I heard she died pretty soon after.

He was about five when that happened. After that, no one went near him. He was dangerous, sir. There's no other explanation for it. He was actually well mannered if you believe it, sir, but he knew we were afraid of him. What could we do? We thought if we tried to get near him, we'd either end up mute and crazy or just plain dead. We thought he was possessed, sir, and for all intents and purposes he was.

How'd you know him anyway, sir? You were his teacher? How odd! I mean, if I remember rightly, he left in strange circumstances. A man turned up and just took him away. No, wait a minute – he went to that boarding school, didn't he? Yeah, that's right. The man said his mum had left some sort of money or legacy, or something, and he went to school up north. I remember now. You see, I may be old, but I'm not senile. So you teach at that school, then? He came back over the summers though, didn't he? It was right strange whenever he was around, I tell you. Almost as strange as those early years. It had got to the point where no one talked to him, and no one mentioned the strange things about him, about what had happened. It was all taboo you see. I guess we all thought that if we ignored it and didn't talk about it, it was like it never happened. Kept us sane acting like that, sir, if you follow.

Then, he went back that one time, and we never saw him again. He just vanished. To do this day I don't want to know what happened to him. Doesn't bear thinking about, you see. What was he like at your school anyway? Head Boy? Never! Well, I knew he was different, always reading books whenever he came back, books he hid from everyone else, but Head Boy? I'd never have took him for that.

Doesn't change my opinion of him though; to me he'll always be a strange one. I'll never ever forget the feeling we got around him. I swear, those first few years with all those strange thing happening! And the feelings we got around him! They mostly stopped when he started speaking and such, but I suppose the coldness remained, the fear. I remember I could smile around him and act normal and such as he got older, but I'll never forget being in that room with that little tiny baby and being scared out of my wits. Made me want to cry, it did.

In fact I did once. You know when kids start to draw and they colour in rainbows and blue skies and such, sir? Well, not him. Not Tom. That first drawing of his I ever saw was nothing like any of that. I could tell what it was sir. Think of him, two years old, barely walking and talking and the first thing he draws is a Grim Reaper standing over his bed, his own arms outstretched to it. I'm telling you now, sir: that boy was born of Death. And I'll tell you this and all: when I think back on how I felt whenever I was in that room with him, I really think the Reaper was in there with us. I hope I never see the lad again.

A/N I was inspired to write this by an essay I came across that came up with a possible answer for why Riddle is the way he is. A frightening thought it is too! Please review, and tell me what you think.


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